Don't Cry Over Spilt Milk
by I said dangerous
Summary: Post-Reichenbach - Something just seemed missing to me. Maybe I just felt it was the most logical distraction for John, as he coped with Sherlock's absence. His heart is so full of possible compassion, that he seemed like a perfect dog owner. Or, maybe I just want Moffat to have to work with animals. Ultimately, my hope is to lift your heart. Dedicated to dog-lovers, everywhere.WIP
1. Chapter 1

Author note: This is based on characters from the BBC Sherlock series, after "The Reichenbach Fall".

Disclaimers: SHERLOCK belongs to Hartswood Films. Great credit goes to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, creators of this inventive new version. Of course, the original inspiration belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I claim no ownership of these characters. I just adore them.

_This is my first, multi-chapter fic. All suggestions, given with positive intent, are most welcome! _

Warnings: Spilt milk.

**CHAPTER 1**

Gladstone growled.

"What's up chap?"

John stumbled up the last stair to the flat, juggling the leash, two Tesco bags and a package of dog food. The squat English Bulldog made another low rumble, as he stood stock still, staring at the closed upper door of 221B.

Rain still dripping from his hair, John fumbled with his keys, clumsily inserting one into the keyhole. Mrs. Hudson had insisted he lock up, ever since the rash of recent break-ins in the neighbourhood.

He nudged the door sharply with his shoulder, faltering, as Gladstone let out a single gruff bark and pushed past into the flat, his solid, stocky body roughly knocking John's calf in the process.

"Oi! Gladstone! What's your rush, boy?" John grumbled, as he lurched forward to drop the heavy bag of kibble and tried to retrieve the keys from the lock.

"**Hello, John.**"

An icy cold flew up his spine, locking him in place, unable to move. The keys slipped to the floor with a clatter.

_No_, was John's only thought, as he remained frozen, hunched, staring at the empty keyhole.

His lungs weren't working. His breath caught in his throat. He could feel his heart rate increasing, jaggedly building to pound in his ears.

"**John?**"

_No._

In slow motion, John straightened and rotated on his heels. It was like someone was turning a marionette. His back and neck seemed fused and his limbs were shaky.

_Ratty sneakers. Torn jeans. No._

_Baggy, stained, grey hoody. No._

_Long, white fingers holding the scull. No._

_A blue scarf. Oh._

_Eyes. His eyes. God._

_A long, messy mop of ginger hair?_

"Sher...?", barely a whisper.

Sherlock watched as John's eyes fluttered, his head tilted back and his whole torso seemed to collapse. Someone had cut the marionette strings and the form crumpled to the floor.

"Damn!"

Sherlock lunged forward, releasing the scull into a chair, but he was too late. The bags hit the floor at the same time as John. Gladstone bared his teeth with a snarl which stopped Sherlock up short.

_Not at all as planned. Did I really even think I had a plan?_ _2 years, 21 days, 8 hours and 12 minutes worth of thinking about this moment, and it definitely wasn't my finest._

He sank down slowly to sit cross-legged, staring at the protective bulldog.

"I've conquered criminals with tougher bites than yours."

Gladstone didn't make another sound, but kept his lip curled up with teeth bared.

"Fine. But, I'm warning you, John won't be happy about the milk."

The dog looked down, as white liquid started to trickle around his paw. He lowered his big head and began lapping it up.


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Dog breath.

**CHAPTER 2**

_Wet._ John felt something wet and rough on his face. _And, hot. Insistent puffs of hot air. Ugh._

"Gladstone, stop it." He gently pushed the slobbery face away.

_What the hell?_ He lay there for a moment looking sideways at the bulldog's curious expression.

The sound of a violin being tuned seeped into his consciousness.

_Oh..._ He struggled to sit up, discovering the mess around him and realizing that he hurt. His head. His arm. His knee. His...

"Is it really you…?" John expelled very quietly, still staring at the mess of shopping on the floor. He couldn't look up. He didn't want confirmation that he had finally, truly lost it.

Sherlock turned from the fireplace, lowering his beloved instrument. He observed John's thoughts, almost as if they hung in the air beside his slumped form.

_Can't look at me. Doesn't want to. Thinks he's going insane. Can't trust his mind. Oh, John. You're so much stronger than this._

"Hardly a question for which I can provide an adequate response. If I say 'yes', I run the risk of not being believed. But, if I say 'no', your confusion will only deepen, perhaps to the point of low blood pressure… and we don't want that again."

…

"Why don't I ask the questions? Why did you keep my violin?"

….

"Ok. I'll start with an easier one… Gladstone? Why is he called Gladstone?"

Sherlock's throat constricted, as eyes... horribly sorrowful, confused, pained, tired, stunned, deep blue eyes slowly beheld him.

The air was stuffy and smelled of wet dog.


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: Snarls.

**CHAPTER 3**

"He's rather unattractive, isn't he?"

Sherlock observed the English Bulldog sitting, with a Buddha-esque physique and an overly large tongue lolling out the side of his vast mouth.

"Sherlock?" _Doubt._

Foggy, grey eyes turned to meet deep, steel blue. "Yes, John?"

"Sherlock." _Denial._

…

"How… what…" John scrunched his eyes up tightly and let out a very long, controlled, sigh. "Why now?"

"John, I have so much to tell you. Please understand that if I had any way… any way at all of coming home sooner, I would have."

"Home." John just sat with his eyes closed shaking his head slowly. "This used to be our home. But, it really isn't… not anymore."

"What do you mean, John?" _Distress. Shock. Confusion. I can help you. Let me help you._

John pushed himself further upright onto his knees, surveying the fallen groceries and wasted milk. "Fetch something to clean this up."

Sherlock took a step towards the kitchen, but Gladstone snarled.

"I'm sorry, John… I would have already seen to you and reclaimed your purchases, however this creature seems to disagree with my movements."

John reached out and lay his hand on the dog's solid head. As soon his touch was felt, Gladstone quieted.

Sherlock took a tentative step and this time the dog glanced at John, as if asking permission to growl. John shook his head slightly. Sherlock continued to the kitchen, grabbed a few tea towels from a drawer and came back in towards the mess.

As Sherlock bent down, the dog's lips started to curl back. John 'shushed' and moved his hand to the thick leather collar around Gladstone's neck.

"Are you alright?"

John ignored the question, slowly got to his feet, keeping his eyes on the dog, as well as a firm grip. As Sherlock sopped up the milk and gathered the lose items back into the bags, John maneuvered towards the bathroom, taking the dog with him. The door shut with a soft click. Taps were turned. Water ran from the shower.

Five minutes later, John emerged in just a t-shirt and towel. He didn't look at the clean floor. He didn't turn his head towards the long body occupying the leather chair. He simply continued upstairs.

Gladstone, however, did sniff the floor and then scrutinized this unwelcome newcomer. He glanced back to where John had gone upstairs, but opted to flop down in the doorway, head on his paws, to stare at Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings: Begging

**CHAPTER 4**

Sherlock stared out the window at the frenetic street, crawling with tourists, taxis and rain. He ran his hand through his very unkempt mop of hair. _God, I need a haircut_.

He heard soft footfalls descending the stairs and waited. And, waited.

"Yes, John. It's really me and I'm still here."

"Why?"

"Because…." _Where to start. You'd think I've have practiced this a thousand times. But, nothing seems quite right. _

"Because, I failed, John."

"Failed at being dead? I don't find that the least bit amusing."

"No… of course not. I failed to keep you safe. You… and Mrs. Hudson… and Lestrade."

"Explain."

Sherlock let go of the curtain and turned to face his friend. _Do I have the right to still think of him as a friend? _ _Hands clenched at his sides. Deep furrows in his brow. Back ram-rod straight._ The last time Sherlock had seen John this way was at his graveside… long ago, now.

"Would you come and sit? I could make us tea."

"No, thanks. I'll make tea. You start talking before I ask you to leave."

"John…"

"No, Sherlock. Just, no. My head is pounding so hard, it feels like it's going to explode. Whether it's the unreality of all this, or I've truly lost it and I'm talking to a ghost, or I'm so angry I just can't see straight. I don't understand, but the only solace I have is that, if you are really and truly here, I need to know why."

Sherlock stared at John's back as he moved into the kitchen and started preparing tea with ridged, military precision. _Every movement sharp and precise. Each step measured and under taut control._

Gladstone rose from his watchful position in the doorway and waddled over to the kitchen. He flopped his backend down, leaning on the cupboard, so he would be strategically positioned, if anything accidentally fell to the floor.

"That day… at Bart's, Moriarty had three assassins under his command. Each was ordered to execute someone he had surmised was significant to me. He had it all planned, so the only way to call off the shooters was if I jumped. I cannot tell you how hard I tried to find another solution, but I had very little time. And we both know how clever and treacherous… Moriarty was… truly insane. I had to play by his rules to keep you alive."

"Right."

…

Sherlock perceived the silence, as if a thick black curtain had been drawn around his mind. He could hear the kettle warming water. He could make out the clink of spoons being taken from a drawer. But, his eyes failed him somehow… they were out of focus, recalling that rooftop fall from grace.

"I did determine a course of action, however. One for which I could not include anyone in my full tactics. Well, just one. Molly. She turned out to be much more capable and trustworthy than I expected."

"Molly."

"Yes, Molly."

"She's known you were… not dead… all this time?"

"Yes."

John's dropped his head, as if it suddenly weighed too much for his body to hold upright. Sherlock observed the tight cords of muscle along the back of his neck and noted the tan line from Afghanistan was no longer distinguishable.

He took a couple of steps toward the kitchen.

John held up his hand without raising his head. "Stop.", he muttered. _Please don't come near me._

Sherlock sank to the floor where he stood.

"I will tell you everything, John. But… I ask for your understanding. I know this is difficult. I just need your trust. As my friend, I do want to convey what I've been through to try to rid this earth of Moriarty… his accomplices, his treachery, and his deceit. And, I want you to know why I took the actions I did."

"Sherlock." John stood with his head still bowed. "You can't ask this of me. I'll try to listen. I'll make you tea. But, I don't think I can ever understand. And, trust? Well…"

"Oh, JOHN!" Sherlock jerked his head angrily, gripping his knees with white knuckles.

At this exclamation, John turned to face Sherlock, eyebrows raised. _What did you expect?_

Sherlock fidgeted in distress. _Yes… What did I expect?_

"Don't think YOU are the only one who suffered in this… this… game! I've endured countless nights wishing for my own bed to sleep in and my own flat to prowl in and my only true friend to help me be… to help me solve this. But, I had to do it on my own. I've seen things… and done things that will disgust you. But, it was all for you. How can I explain this, if you won't even…"

Sherlock's speech actually caught in his throat. It wasn't a sob. It wasn't a whine. But, it was a lifetime of frustration which halted his outburst. He lowered his head, slowly, as if submitting to a guillotine.

John's raised eyebrows plunged to scowl at this man. _This absurd, conundrum of a human being_, _sitting cross-legged on our living room floor._ _Oh for God's sake… MY OWN living room floor! Sherlock is NOT my flatmate. He does not live here. And, he has no right to call it 'home'._

He turned back to flick off the kettle and proceeded to make tea. He placed milk and sugar on a tray. _God knows what he takes in his tea these days and I'll be damned if I'm going to ask._

"Incredible. I never thought I would have such anger towards you for this. I actually think it was better knowing you were gone and feeling sorry for that loss. Now, I've just got this immense heat… like the kettle boiling... inside me."

John started at the sharp bark near his feet. Two great, pragmatic, brown eyes stared up at John, seeming to say, _So what? Where's my biscuit?_


	5. Chapter 5

Warnings: Drool

**CHAPTER 5**

Gladstone gave the lanky man sitting on the floor a wide berth, as he trotted from the kitchen, crumbs flying from his jowls as he crunched on a 'bicky'. The stocky canine increased his speed on approach to the more modern looking chair. In a very ungainly manner, he launched himself up, turned around twice and flopped down on the seat. His long, pink tongue rolled out, panting away the exertion, while a line of drool slowly fell onto the grey leather.

John deposited the tray of tea on the floor next to Sherlock. He picked up one mug, into which tea had already been poured, and continued to the sofa.

Sherlock sat like a statue - one of those marble 'thinkers' - except his head was too low and his posture too bent. And really, he was too bony to be a sculpture. _God. He __is__ bony… those ratty clothes are hanging off him. And, what is it with the ginger hair? _

John continued to sip his tea, staring at his former flatmate.

Eventually, Sherlock stirred, raised his head slightly and poured himself a cup.

_Two sugars. A dab of milk. Not everything has changed then. _ John felt like yawning, as he looked out the window and saw twilight beginning, but he held it in check. _How is this going to go? How do I ask him to leave? Do I want him to leave? Why do I feel like he's raking me over hot coals?_ John's skin felt prickly.

"Sherlock. I'm at a loss. I am… not able to think, really. Maybe I need a shock blanket." John snorted to himself and shook his head at the absurdity of the situation. "I just don't see how pretending to be dead all this time was of any benefit to you, or me. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or Lestrade."

Sherlock sighed. Not one of his 'I'm-rolling-my-eye's-because-you-are-so-thick' sighs. It was more of a bone-weary release.

"After my… fall… I left England immediately. I went to Paris, then Prague. I wish I could say I gathered souvenirs and slept in feather beds. But, no. I went underground to learn as much as I could about Moriarty's organization. It was very… demanding. I always had to act like someone else, someone… less observant. All while grasping at every opportunity to collect any scrap of information obtainable. The most difficult part was piecing it all together. And, what I missed most was your… enlightenment. Our conversations had proven a great benefit to me in working through puzzles and suddenly, I was back to relying solely on my talents. It wasn't as gratifying or as productive, at times. But, I had no choice."

John realized he'd been sitting up straight, tensely perched on the edge of his seat. He shifted back into the cushions and started toying with the Union Jack pillow. He continued to watch Sherlock's profile, where he remained on the floor, gazing towards the open doorway.

"Each day, I set myself a goal of uncovering at least one piece of data. Some trails were dead-ends. Then, occasionally, one would prove more promising. I had to keep moving from place to place… I think I now know all the hostels and no-star hotels in Europe. Mother would be amazed." He paused, allowing himself a moment to smirk at the thought of his family's reaction to his uncouth existence. But, the smirk quickly vanished.

"You see, John, Moriarty was on Bart's roof with me that day. And, he shot himself… through the mouth… right in front of me."

A sharp intake of breath. The cushion John was turning over and over, stopped moving. Sherlock didn't see the look of dismay and recognition in John's eyes. _I know what it feels like to watch a bullet take someone's life, right in front of you._

"However, Moriarty didn't kill himself. He tried very hard to make me believe he had. It was very convincing, I'll admit… blood pooled out the back of his head with even a little brain matter thrown in. God knows where he obtained that." Sherlock uncrossed his legs, pulled his knees up and wrapped his long arms around them.

"But, you didn't know that did you? Because all the papers talked about was my death… my 'suicide'. They never found Moriarty's body, because immediately after my fall, he dusted himself off, looked over the edge and saw me being loaded onto a stretcher. But, most importantly, he saw YOU. He witnessed your reaction to my death… he relished your experience of watching me die before your eyes. With absolutely NOTHING you could do about it. He saw our connection destroyed. He saw your military stature shatter. He saw me burn. And, he believed he had won."

John felt numb. His brain was trying to process this new information, but the images being presented were only forcing him to relive the nightmare.

Confusion wracked Sherlock's mind for an instant. _Why can't I look him in the eye? What is it about telling the truth here that seems like untruths?_ He forced these thoughts back into his Mind Fortress to analyze later. _Yes. No longer is it a Palace… too unsecure. _ Three months after his 'fall' he had decided it needed to become a Fortress. And, now there were many rooms that had been locked and the keys thrown away. No one needed to know some of the things he was forced to do these last 25 months in order to gather precious data.

"Sherlock."

"I'm here, John."

"How on Earth did you survive that fall?"

Gladstone leapt off the chair, emitting a sharp baritone woof, as the downstairs buzzer rang.

"Maximum pressure. Over two seconds. Someone who knows you, John."

The bulldog stood at the top of the stairs, wagging his stump of a tail.


	6. Chapter 6

Warnings: Petting. And, more spilt milk.

**CHAPTER 6**

By the time John rose and moved towards the stairs, Mrs. Hudson had opened the front door and muffled voices could be heard in friendly greeting.

"Jooo…ohnnnn!" A sing-song voice called out. "Are you here?"

"Yes, Mary! Upstairs." John stood beside Gladstone at the top, waiting. "Do you need a hand?"

"No, no." Heels clicked on the wood risers. "I just thought I'd pop by to see if you wanted to grab dinner? It's Tuesday and Yo Sushi is having it's 2 for 1 specia….."

Her sunny smile faded when she looked up at John's pained expression. Mary approached the top step and noted his pallor. "Are you ok, John? You look awfully pale, even in this light…"

A deep voice answered from within the flat. "His left wrist, knee and head are throbbing, but otherwise, he's in good health. Just a bit of a shock, I'm afraid."

The petite blonde reached out for John, who took hold of her arms at the elbows. She looked past him to the homeless person sitting on the floor drinking tea. Gladstone pushed eagerly against her legs wanting a pat. She bent down to scratch his ears, while looking questioningly back up at John, only to see such lifelessness… and pain.

"Mary Morstan, let me introduce Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Mary."

_Sharp intake of breath. Good. At least John told her about me. Decent quality shoes, not meant for the rain, though. Stockings, Boot's brand. Linen skirt, well wrinkled, desk job. Chanel knock-off jacket. Small, pearl necklace, imitation. Short bob, just below the ears, easy to manage. Croydon accent. Pretty face. John's type._

Sherlock set his cup down and seemed to unfold, like a cat stretching. With one smooth movement, he was towering over them, keen, ghostly eyes staring without smiling… extending his hand. "Enchanté."

John scowled sideways, as Mary just stood straight, but still. She looked from Sherlock to John… and back to Sherlock's outstretched hand. Too late. It was removed, as this unkempt being turned towards the fireplace with a feline grace, which contradicted his attire completely.

Mary stepped forward into the room, forcing Gladstone to back up into the tea tray with a clatter of porcelain. This interrupted the palpable tension. "Oh you poor ol' thing. Look what you did… let me wipe the milk off your paw. John, can you get this tray off the floor?" Gladstone relished her attention and tried to give a wet lick to her face, as she knelt down, pulling a tissue out of her sleeve.

"Sherlock Holmes. May I ask… aren't you dead?" _She seems rather calm_, Sherlock noted, watching her in the mirror.

"I am, yes."

"What do you mean, Sherlock? You're here in our… my flat, looking a little worse for wear, but apparently as alive as can be!" John had turned from depositing the tray on the empty kitchen table, his brow furrowed in frustration.

"I have come before you very much alive, I assure you. But, for all intents and purposes, the world still thinks I no longer exist. And, this façade, I was hoping to maintain for a few more days."

"Whatever for?" Mary queried, stroking the top of the bulldog's massive head. Gladstone was salivating with eyes half closed.

"John, there is simply too much to convey. We will need this whole entire night and I still won't have answered all your questions. This is what I meant by asking for your trust. I need it now more than ever, if we are to survive the next 48 hours."

"Oh, God, Sherlock."

"WHAT?" Mary snapped to her feet and Gladstone yelped with surprise.

"It wasn't my intention to implicate anyone else in this matter." Sherlock was staring at Mary's reflection in the mirror. "I thought John would be alone."

"You know," Mary stared straight back in the mirror at Sherlock. "John has told me many, many stories of your escapades together."

_That is good._

"And, he did convey that you were somewhat arrogant and immune to others feelings."

_Bit not good._

"But, this is ridiculous! John has already been physically hurt, that's evident. Now you threaten him? And, you are asking for some sort of trust?" Her voice had gotten a little shrill. Gladstone whimpered.

"Mary… it's ok." John consoled.

"No, it's not! I'm stunned." She paced over to the sofa, with the dog trotting after her. She stalked around the coffee table and came back over to John, who hadn't moved from the kitchen doorway. "In the space of one minute, my lovely day, which was going to be a lovely night having dinner with you, has suddenly become some sort of 'intrigue' brought on by a dead man!" Her eyebrows pointed downward, wrinkling the bridge of her petite nose.

_Her eyes are very stormy, indeed. _

"Oh, John. I respect you and will stand by you. But, this is absurd. Why are you even having this conversation?"

…

John exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Because I need to know, Mary. I need to understand why my… why Sherlock has reappeared." He held out one hand to take hers. They stood side by side now, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

_Ah… He's replaced his cane, I see._

Sherlock turned from the mirror to stare intently straight into John's eyes. John held firm and didn't blink, his head slightly tilted to the side.

Mary, on the other hand, felt… what? Felt like she was in the wrong place. Felt like something was melting. Sherlock wouldn't look at her. _He only cares about John._

She squeezed John's hand tighter to break this spell. It worked. John looked at her with that puppy face… as if he'd chewed on something and should be scolded. But, she knew his silent begging would make her surrender.

"Perhaps, I should take Gladstone for a walk?" Mary didn't really ask. Dropping John's hand, she turned to snatch the leash from the hook on the back of the door. At the slight tinkling sound, Gladstone started to jump about a little. She snapped the hook on his collar, picked up her purse, and moved back to give John a peck on the cheek. She turned to Sherlock, commanding he return her gaze.

"John's been doing just fine, for a long time now. He's healed, he's healthy and he's loved. I probably should know what this is all about, but I really don't want to. It's evident to me that you bring danger into our midst, Mr. Holmes, and if you harm John further in any way, I will tell you that anything you've experienced during your 'death' will be nothing compared to my displeasure." And, with that declaration, she turned, trying to be much taller than she was and disappeared out the door with the bulldog lumbering along behind.


	7. Chapter 7

Warnings: A dead elephant and sighs

**CHAPTER 7**

* * *

Sherlock had to admit, he hadn't quite expected Mary's show of confidence. _Curious. Protective, but not purely for self-interest. She left us, trusting in John to turn me away. Further study required._

He glanced over, as the front door shut, rather too harshly. Sherlock witnessed John's face contort, as if in pain, as he sloped sideways, seeming to lose his balance. Sherlock lunged forward, intent on catching him this time, not wanting a repeat of the previous faint. But he aborted his reach, upon seeing John's reflexes engage, thrusting out a hand to grab the doorjamb to steady his own faltering body.

1 heartbeat, 2 heartbeats, 3, 4, 5, 6… nothing moved. Until, John looked up.

_Glistening eyelashes. Dear God, what have I done._

"John… I'm…"

"It was so hard, Sherlock. Each day, I thought my mind was going to pieces. You say you had a job to do and a path you chose. But, I didn't. You planted this doubt… of your abilities, of your intentions, which I fought against every day." John looked away and breathed a heavy, forlorn sigh. "You left me alone, again and… it was… Not. Good."

"John, I had to make sure…"

"You know what I realized? I had come to rely on you, Sherlock. Our… friendship had meant… much to me. But, you just can't do this… You can't yank yourself out of existence and then reinsert yourself into my life. I did survive, as Mary said. But, I can't go through that again. And now… I'm not really sure that I actually want to know why your back, in the end."

"Oh but, John, you _should _know… your curiosity will get the better of you."

"Sherlock. You have no idea how difficult it's been for me."

"I do, John."

"No. You. Don't."

…

Sherlock swallowed. He hadn't anticipated the shear pain in John's countenance. "Then I want you to tell me. I need to know everything. Perhaps… if we approached this logically… like a case? Why don't we sit down and take turns asking questions?"

…

_Sigh._ John felt lost. Emotionally and physically drained, as if he had run an Olympic marathon. _This is so_ s_urreal. It's all so wrong. I want it to be right… but I have no idea how to say…? _He peered up into the face he had longed to see again for countless, sleepless nights.

Neither spoke. Grey beheld blue. Intellect met emotion. The detective observed the solider.

"Please, John."

Yearning overcame shuffled hesitantly over to his chair.

Sherlock moved to the more modern chaise and slunk down to sit. However, his hands abruptly darted out to the arms to catch himself. He rose, went to the kitchen, grabbed some paper towels, returned, wiped the seat free of drool, then sank into the chair.

"He's not very sanitary, is he…"

"Sherlock…"

"Ok. You go first."

"It's not possible for someone to survive a fall from that height."

"I had help, John. Some of my homeless network acted as pedestrians on the street. Others were employed to stop more people from coming too close by. They used an excuse of a gas leak on the block, so there were few people around."

"Why did you need your network to be pedestrians?"

"To help with the airbag."

"What airbag?"

"Several years ago, I helped out a circus troupe. Nasty business with a murdered elephant. At any rate, they owed me a favour. I jumped into one of their training airbags." *1

"An air… bag."

"Yes. Strategically positioned. I landed, rolled off and they quickly gathered it back into a truck and drove off. My turn."

John just sat gaping, not blinking…

"Why call him Gladstone?"

"What?" John shook his head. "The dog? Oh. It was my mother's maiden name, and well… when he was a pup, he had this big sappy grin all the time and he could be so stubborn… he just sat like a rock… you couldn't budge him. So, 'glad'… 'stone'… It seemed to fit. So..." John shrugged and ran a slightly trembling hand through his dappled hair. He gazed a Sherlock, perplexed… "You were dead. You had no pulse."

"Rubber ball, placed in the armpit. Cut off circulation down my arm. Old army trick. Thought you might have figured that one, actually."

"Armpit…"

"Yes, John."

"But, I saw you hit the ground!"

"Did you?"

…

"Do you remember a bicycle?"

"A bicycle?"

"I thought you might not. From where you were standing, the front building blocked your view of where I fell. As you approached, I had a bicycle courier knock you down."

"You told someone to knock me down?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"This gave us the few extra seconds needed to clear the airbag and for the truck to get away."

_Confusion. Disbelief. Concentration. Anger. Oh, John. _

"I believe it's my turn. Why did you remain here… in the flat?"

John took a slow look around the room. "I couldn't, at first. I slept at the clinic a few nights. I tried to stay with Harry, but that didn't work. But then, Mrs. Hudson called me about what to do with your things and asked if I would come back. She reduced the rent so much that there really wasn't any place else that was affordable… and I guess I…"

…

"You what, John?"

"I needed to be here."

_Curious. Confusing. Can't look at me again._

"What did you do with my things?" Sherlock absently reached over to the side table and stroked the edge of his volin.

"I think it's my turn."

"Fine."

"You… just looked… so… dead." John closed his eyes. "I can still see you lying there… in a pool of blood… and it was across your face. Your eyes." _God. His eyes._

"It was actually the most difficult part… I couldn't have you suspect anything, other than my demise. I truly am sorry, John. It was just so necessary. I hope you can believe that."

_Sigh._

"I swallowed a near lethal dose of carvedilol on the roof, just before I called you.*2 Molly gave it to me – it's a beta-blocker which slows the heart rate. A side effect is dilated pupils. I just had to concentrate on not focusing on anyone and not blink."

"Well, you certainly succeeded."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Ah…"

"Then they carried you off so quickly…"

"Molly again… she had a team at the ready and was watching. They loaded me onto the stretcher and she pronounced me DOA."

"But, Molly actually 'saved' you."

"A bit."

* * *

*1 Don't take the airbag idea as canon of the show – I think there is another possibility into which Sherlock jumped, but for the purposes of this story, this was a bit more fun .

*2 So THIS is what I think Moffat meant by Sherlock doing something out of character in TRF… the shot of him raising his hand/arm to his face and spinning around while glancing back a Moriarty lying on the rooftop. It's so unlike him to act shocked/lost/frightened/unsure… why would he make this movement, if not to try to convince Moriarty of his unraveling and perhaps to take this moment to ingest something… (love the speculation… hate Moffat for being so damn good at tormenting us :)


	8. Chapter 8

Warnings: More sighs

**CHAPTER 8**

* * *

"My turn."

Sigh. _John's fourth big exhalation. They are getting slightly shorter each time, though…_

"How long have you been seeing Mary?"

John shook his head, unbelievingly… "Sherlock, why does that matter? Of all the things you've been up to and all the questions to ask, why do you want to know how long I've been with Mary?"

"Because, she is obviously… important to you. And, I've rather made a mess of our introduction. It is not my intention to hurt you, John. It never has been. It was necessary to distract Moriarty from his obsession with you… and me."

"He wasn't obsessed with me."

"Au contraire, mon ami. " Sherlock huffed. "He wanted to hurt us both very badly. He knew that to burn me, he had to force… well, he had to make me…" Sherlock looked away to the side, picked up his violin and started to pluck at the strings.

"He made you do what? He wanted you to jump, I get that. He told you he was going to kill me, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, if you didn't. But, why did you say those things on the phone?" John gulped. _This wasn't easy. It hurt like hell, in fact. _"I replayed what you said to me, about being a fake, over and over again. Why did you try to convince me you lied? Because I was… sickening. I knew it couldn't be true. All that cleverness and you just used it to lie to me since the first day we met?"

"I had to… because _he_ was listening. That's part of it." _Silence. Staring into my soul. I'm out of my depth here._

"And the other part?"

"It… grieved me… to deceive you, John. But, in order to give you the separation… in order for you to move on and thrive, I needed you to believe I was… not everything… you thought."

_Fifth sigh._

"But, I didn't believe you."

"I know."

"How did you know?"

"I watched you."

"I thought you said you left immediately for Paris."

"Immediately after you visited my grave."

"You were nowhere nearby, how could you know what I said?"

"Your body language, John."

John just stared, eyebrows knotted together, forehead wrinkled, lips pressed thinly, hands clasped in his lap.

The creak of the downstairs door being opened cut through the stillness. A cheery conversation could be overheard… "Oh hello, dear. Good timing! Come in, come in! I'm just heading out for a bit. Do you need anything? Ok. Toodle-loo!"

Gladstone came huffing up the stairs. He stopped in the middle of the living room, panting, swinging his head back and forth, observing the two occupants of his favourite resting spots. He squinted at Sherlock and then waddled to the kitchen to slosh water around his bowl and onto the floor.

"Gentlemen?"

"Mary! Sorry!" John jerked away from his dazed scrutiny of Sherlock, leapt from his chair, winced as he twisted his banged-up knee, and stepped to take the leash from Mary's hands. "Did he pull your arm off?"

"Yes. As ever."

"Sorry. Thank you so much for taking him out. God, what time is it?" He glanced over to the clock in the kitchen.

8:13… John turned back and put his hand on her shoulder. "Mary, you must be starving. What can I get you? Do you want to go out? Should we get takeaway? Anything you like."

"I'd like to go home, I think." She stood blinking, contemplating his earnest face.

"Please, Mary…"

"No, John. I can see you are not nearly done here."

"Mary Morstan. I wish to thank you for keeping such great care of John." Sherlock slowly rose, setting the violin down on his chair… then thinking better of it and moving his cherished instrument to the side table, so as not to be in harm's way of one rather clumsy bulldog.

Mary looked over warily at Sherlock.

"If time had afforded me the opportunity to make better arrangements, please appreciate I would have. I have spent over two years creating chaos and circumventing death. So, spontaneity in a situation is where my focus has lain. But, I do appreciate that not everyone enjoys such upheaval. I would like to make amends. Here's 10£. If you would be so kind as to get us some milk, we are completely out. And, I will order take out in the meantime."

The look on Mary's face… John groaned.

_Bit not good… again? God, things are just not going my way with all this._ It was Sherlock's turn to sigh.

Mary stepped forward. Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable sting of the slap to his cheekbone.

But instead, he felt the note abruptly snatched out of his hand. He opened one eye to watch Mary turn on her heel and head back out the door. She grabbed John's keys from the table as she passed and quickly descended the stairs with sharp clicks of her heels.

John gaped at Mary's back as she left, then turned and gaped even more widely at Sherlock. "How did you do that?", he asked, after hearing the front door close with a precise bang.

"Do what?"

"She never gets the milk."

"A girl after my own heart, then."

"No, seriously, how did you do that?"

"Perhaps she cares about you more than you know."

"Oh, I know, Sherlock."

"And, yet you are living… here."

…

Sigh number six from John… _A really rather long one, at that_. _Accompanied by head shaking._

John sat down on the sofa.

"Hadn't we better order takeout, John?"

"Oh don't worry about that… Mary's already arranging it, too."

"Well then, where were we?" Sherlock smirked a little…

_That old 'God-how-I-missed-it' turn-up on one side of his mouth,_ John thought.

Sherlock stepped backwards, aiming for 'his' chair, and started to sit.

"Grrrrrrrrrr…."

He whipped his head around to see Gladstone curled up on his chair, head on the armrest, astutely not looking in Sherlock's direction.

* * *

A/N: Don't know about you, but my dog is ALWAYS in the way. Sprawled at the top of the stairs. Right behind us in the kitchen. Won't back up when we come in the front door. Acting like a rug in the centre of the room. But, do you think he'll come when he's called? Not bloody likely.


	9. Chapter 9

Warnings: Battles of will

**CHAPTER 9**

* * *

"And, then you just killed him. You did it. By yourself."

"Of course, John. I wasn't going to leave it to chance."

"How?"

"Injection."

"Of…?"

"You shouldn't really ask that."

"So, yesterday, after 2 years…"

"… 20 days, 4 hours and 13 minutes…"

"You confronted Moriarty and killed him in cold blood."

"Dead men cannot commit murder, John."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"I see that the lunatic that once left me, has indeed returned."

…

Both men simply stared at each other. Hundreds of emotions should have passed over their faces. But it was as if, each was frozen in the moment… knowing that the past and future were colliding into a cosmic big bang and the simplest twitch would be the catalyst.

Gladstone decided enough was enough and gave a huge yawn… the kind that only dogs can make which unhinge their jaws, and rolled over onto his back on the smooth leather.

"However…" Sherlock looked down at the flaccid pose of the dog in _his_ chair.

"However?"

"As much of Moriarty's network as I was able to destroy, he has an accomplice whom escaped me."

"That doesn't sound good."

"No… it's not. This is what prompted my return in such an… untimely fashion."

"Meaning there is a real threat out there, again. And, you decided that rather than take time to wash, buy a new suit and get rid of this ridiculous mop of ginger on your head, you would instead head straight to 221B?"

"Yes."

"What are we in for?"

"Trained army assassin."

"Just my type."

"I thought short, perky, admin assistants were your type, John."

_Slight smirk._

Keys sounded in the downstairs lock. The door opened and weary steps sounded on the stairs. Gladstone leapt off the chair, trotting bowlegged to stand in the doorway, waiting.

"Yes, yes. I got you something too, Gladstone."

"Let me help you, Mary"

"Thank you."

John took several bags from her hands and moved to set them on the kitchen table. The smell of curry started to waft about.

Sherlock began to step towards _his_ chair at the same time as the dog was returning from greeting Mary. The two of them suddenly stopped and stared each other down. It felt like _High Noon_. Sherlock made a sudden rush towards the chair, but Gladstone beat him to it, leapt up and flopped into position.

Smoothly aborting his attempt at commandeering his prized seat, Sherlock snatched his violin from the table instead. Gladstone glared at this 'intruder' through wary eyes, while the slender man in baggy clothes, which seemed much too big for him, quickly tuned his instrument and began to make it sing.

Mary took off her shoes and worked at her toes, bending them forward and back to ease their soreness, all the while staring at Sherlock. _Why didn't he change his clothes before he showed up here? Didn't he want to make a good impression?_ She wrinkled her nose up a bit, thankful he didn't smell as bad as he looked. She then smirked a little, as she witnessed the dog win his spot on the chair. _This is a contest of wills all around. I know that. He even needs to battle with the dog to find some place of seniority here. But, this is my life… John's life. And, I'm not ready to lose this._

Sherlock gave Mary a glance as he played. _Bunions in 2 years. Varicose veins in 4. Her eyes will always look so cold to me. I don't know what I can do to fix that. For John's sake, I wish I could. She shouldn't be here. She is the complete opposite to what he needs. His strength has all but gone. His solid backbone has become malleable._ _God, it feels good to play again._

As the bow glided over taut strings, Sherlock turned to watch John being so domestic, getting plates out of the cupboard, forks out of the drawer, and napkins from the shelf.

Sherlock swiveled back towards Mary, opening his mouth to speak. Simultaneously with his rotation, and before he could utter a syllable, a loud _CRACK _bludgeoned the air._ G_lass shattered from one of the window panes, the violin was jerked from his hands, Mary screamed, and Gladstone let out a loud series of angry barks, which sounded very much like a string of obscenities.

* * *

A/N: A great nod to _**Skyfullofstars **_and_** The Boys of Baker Street. **_After reading that, there really didn't seem like any other way for Moriarty to go.


	10. Chapter 10

Warnings: Pets not welcome

**CHAPTER 10**

* * *

They seemed to be living in suspended animation. Or at least in 'matrix' time.

The violin cartwheeled twice after leaving Sherlock's grip, splinters of wood exploding around it, telling of irreparable damage. Sherlock's reflexes reacted to drop his body to the floor. He whipped his head around to the kitchen, seeing John crawling under the kitchen table. Milk was pouring over the closest edge, but John ignored it and kept low. He made it to the hall and continued into Sherlock's old bedroom.

The bulldog was jumping up and down in the chair, barking fiercely. Mary stood frozen in the middle of the room.

"Mary! Get down!" Sherlock yelled.

She looked at him with terror in her eyes, her lips moving but no sound coming out.

_Oh for God's sake!_ Sherlock rose part way and dove across the distance, catching her by the calves and pulling her down on top of him.

"Let ME GO!"

Sherlock rolled to place his back between Mary and the shattered window.

"Listen to me! There is a trained killer across the street with a rifle pointed at this flat! I'm trying to keep you safe, but I need you to do as I tell you!"

"JOHN!"

"He's alright. He's gone to find his gun."

"He has a gun!?"

"I imagine he's not told you, because he put it away, never expecting he would need it again."

"A GUN!?"

_Oh why me._

"I'm back in the kitchen, Sherlock!"

"Good! What do you think, John… up or down?!"

"Down! We can try to get through Mrs. Hudson's back door."

"I've got Mary! On the count of 3, give us some distraction through the window!"

"RIGHT!"

"One…. Two… THREE!"

Gunshots are very loud in confined spaces and John's army pistol was no exception. He let go 4 rounds at the shattered window, aiming a spread towards the most probable trajectory of second story locations across the street.

Sherlock pushed Mary harshly up to her knees and urged her swiftly to the top of the staircase and forward to descend. He, on the other hand, made an agile, acrobatic flip and sprang onto the half-way point on the landing. Gladstone came barking down the stairs after the crawling Mary. Her arms were shaking, as she stopped on the landing beside Sherlock.

"OK, JOHN! You can JUMP!"

John fired off 2 more rounds, rolled through the side door, took a fast glance at Sherlock and pushed off the top step hard. Sherlock was knocked back to the wall with the force, but he caught the Doctor's stocky body, just as a bullet slammed into the wall only three feet above their heads.

Sherlock let go of John and lunged down the rest of the stairs, while John pulled Mary to follow. Sherlock whipped around the corner to crash open Mrs. Hudson's door with his shoulder.

After unlocking the back door to 221A, he stepped swiftly aside as he yanked it open, to avoid any possible second sniper fire. When no shots were heard, Sherlock yelled, "Come on!" and held open the door open for the others to get outside. Gladstone bounded ahead, luckily a little too excited at being allowed out loose to bother to bark. The rain had stopped, which left everything slick and glossy. They all ran to the back alley, where Sherlock waved his hand out and back again rapidly to see if it drew any fire. None came.

He bolted left down the alley towards the busier street where there would be more chance of flagging a cab. He had a cab door open waiting, by the time John and Mary arrived, breathless, followed by the dog with his large, bright, excited eyes. All of them dove into the cab.

The cabbie turned, "I don't take pets."

Sherlock roared, "DRIVE!"


	11. Chapter 11

Warnings: bumps

**CHAPTER 11**

* * *

John stood at the front door to Mary's flat. She had buzzed a neighbour to open up, as her keys were in her purse which was still sitting at 221B, along with her new shoes. John had a hand on both her shoulders, but she wasn't meeting his gaze.

"Mary, I'm so, so, sorry. Please know that."

…

"Are you ok? You didn't step on any glass, did you? I can go up and make a prescription, if you need it."

Mary's feet didn't look bloody, but there were a few holes in her stockings.

…

"Mary please talk to me."

"Come on, John!" Sherlock called impatiently through the open cab door. "Lestrade is waiting."

"Go, John."

"Mary I don't have to go… I can take care of you."

"I know you can… but… I'm not sure you want to right now."

"How can you say that? You are my darling girl."

"But, _he_ is your _darling_ boy." She glanced into John's face… and saw him falter.

_Ah…. Damn. _She straightened her shoulders. "You told me you had lived through enough danger and turmoil to last a lifetime. But, you still crave it. I thought I had helped you, but this…. all this…." She waved her hands around towards the waiting cab, "You look more alive in this moment than any time I've been with you." She blinked as tears started to trickle down her cheeks.

"Mary… please… This has been a frightful experience for all of us. Get inside and have a good long soak in the bath. Then, I want you to go straight to bed. No work tomorrow. Call in sick. Doctor's orders. Call me if you need to, but you will be safe here. No one followed us and they don't know about you… because it's Sherlock they are after."

He kissed her forehead, as the flat door opened behind them. He steered her inside. "Lock the door. Don't answer it for anyone tonight. I'll come by tomorrow."

The door closed. He dropped his head and didn't move.

Sherlock watched John's shoulders rise and fall deeply._Sigh__ number seven. Was that number any different than any other day? Of course it was._

Gladstone hopped out of the open cab door and jogged over to John, nudged his leg with his stocky body. He gazed up at his owner, looking all happy and excited to be on an adventure, tongue panting in time with his tail. He started back towards the cab and turned back to give John a sharp bark. John shook his head with one side of his mouth twisted in chagrin. He got back into the waiting cab, alongside the bulldog. They pulled away quickly, heading for New Scotland Yard.

* * *

"How are you going to do this, Sherlock?" John wasn't looking at his companion. He remained fixed on the dark London streets whizzing by outside the cab window.

"You mean how am I going to reintroduce myself to those who fell so blindly into Moriarty's plans?"

"You should know, Greg really tried to apologize. He felt sick after you…. He tried to keep in touch. Even invited me to help on a case… very quietly, of course, because the Chief Super seemed to still have it in for him. But, I just couldn't. It was your area and I had no right to… to try to…"

_Resurrect me… in your own way? _

"I have thought this over many times, John. And, while I _would_ like to use all my resources exacting the perfect revenge of embarrassment, defamation and demotion, our present circumstances are going to require a different tact."

"So, you're forced to ask for their help."

"Obviously."

"Who the HELL are we dealing with, Sherlock?!" John's hands were fists and his angry gaze had turned to this… _bloody nightmare of a man_… thought John.

"Sebastian Moran. Ring any bells?"

John looked like he'd been slapped. "Oh my, God. By reputation, yes! I think I remember… He was known to my unit in Afghanistan. He was a crack shot, I believe… but he had a temper. We'd heard he'd gotten a disorderly conduct and was sent home."

"Indeed. However, he never quite made it home. Moriarty snatched him up and he had been in his employ these last few years. I suspect he was one of our riflemen that night at the pool… But now, we've been very lucky _twice_, to have his aim not find its mark."

The cab bounced over a sleeping policeman* and Gladstone whined from his uncomfortable place on the floor.

* * *

* an asphalt speed bump on the road, for those in North America!


	12. Chapter 12

**Warning: a gun and wasted milk (becoming a habit, isn't it?)**

**CHAPTER 12**

* * *

"Good evening, Inspector."

Lestrade's head jerked up from adding milk to his tea. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL!" Milk from the carton continued to pour into his mug, overflowing onto the counter, over the edge and onto the floor. "SHERLOCK?" Complete disbelief was apparent on Greg's gaping face.

"Lestrade."

Greg broke his glare to look down at the squat bulldog running around his feet, lapping up the milk.

"JOHN? WHAT'S GOING ON?!" Greg looked back up, as the two men entered the kitchenette area.

"It's a bit complicated, Greg."

Lestrade's shoulders slumped, as he shook his head incredulously. "Isn't it always?!..."

Donovan burst into the room and stopped in a kind of comical pose, as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in her direction…"What the F….?!"

"Please leave Sergeant Donovan. Your presence here is not required and I'm in no mood to debate your prolific contributions to my current situation."

"It's ok, Sally. I've got this. I'm SURE we'll get an explanation, someday. But, something tells me, tonight is not the night." Lestrade was trying to set the milk carton and mug on the counter and dry his hands on a tea towel.

Sally looked thunderously at her boss. "Fine sir, but I should tell the Chief…"

"YOU WILL DO NO SUCH THING! Just wait for me at your desk. Understood?!"

Sally scowled at all three men, but then turned on her heel and shut the door.

Lestrade eyed Sherlock up and down. "You look like shit."

"Thank you."

"Red hair, Sherlock? Is this what happens when you die?"

"I assure you, Lestrade. It only happens when the Devil takes a liking to you."

"Perfect. Just F-ing perfect." He stared at this animated corpse for a moment longer, thoughts almost visible as they passed across his brow.

Sherlock just returned his gaze with an eyebrow tilted. _Put on weight. More grey hair. Numerous frown lines prominent. Tense. Hasn't seen his wife in a very long while._

"Ok. Gimmie."

"It seems that while I have endeavoured to return to London incognito, a certain assassin has followed me here and is trying, once and for all, to extinguish my existence."

"But, you are already dead. What do I care, if he kills you again?"

John intervened. "Ok, enough, Greg. I can't believe what this night has turned into. And believe me, I wish I was seeing you again under better circumstances."

"The circumstances of me being alive, John?" Sherlock turned to look at him with a troubled expression.

"Of course NOT! " John shook his head to try to clear it of the last 2 hours. We're all happy that you are not… that you're back. But, we have this shooter on the loose and… well..."

"Are you telling me, Sherlock, that you have been in hiding, outside the UK, and the moment you return, all hell breaks loose?!"

"Essentially, yes."

"So you come running to me. Why not Mycroft?"

John turned his eyes to his former flatmate, realizing the weight of Greg's comment. _Mycroft._ Sherlock hadn't made mention of his brother. _Of course. Even though I never said anything to Sherlock about our conversation at the Diogenes, he must have realized Mycroft's involvement in aiding Moriarty. He was played, just as Sherlock had been. And Sherlock had expected better of his overbearing sibling._

"My brother cannot help with this matter."

"Oohhhh….kaaaay… So you know I have a million questions, but, I guess we need to act first?"

"Prudent."

"Just one question, please?"

"Proceed."

"What the hell is this dog doing here?!"

* * *

John sat in Lestrade's office scratching Gladstone's head. The bulldog was sitting, leaning heavily on John's leg, drooling on the carpet.

"Sherlock."

The ginger clad head slowly turned from the gazing out the window to face his faithful army doctor. "Yes, John."

"I don't know that I can do this."

"Why not?" _Can't look at me. Breathing labored. May have overtaxed his…_

"I cannot see you killed… again."

"I won't be."

"You can't say that! You have no idea what's going to happen! This is all just guesswork and chance and it's your life… and MY life you are playing with here."

"That didn't used to be a concern, John."

"Things change. I've changed, I guess."

_Unacceptable_. Sherlock took 3 strides over and crouched down in front of his friend. The dog budged over a little, but gave Sherlock a wary eye.

"John. I promise to you… no… I swear to you that we will have time to talk. We will have time to review all that took place during my absence. You can tell me everything that occurred in London and I will tell you what I accomplished. But, this is _precisely_ why I had to come back… Moran would have found me… or found you first. Either way, we need to end this, and I have to draw him out."

"There are things I never would… I never thought…"

"I believe you."

John finally looked up. His distressed gaze bore such concern. Sherlock swallowed. He didn't quite know what to make of this intensity. _Hurt. Distress. He's wallowing in some place so far from here._ But, he decided, it too, had to wait. He rose quickly.

"CAPTAIN WATSON! I require your SKILLS!"

John started, clearly surprised at Sherlock's tone. He leapt up from his seat to stand straight and tall… Well, as tall as he could muster… which actually did seem a good few inches more than normal. Gladstone jumped to all fours looking between the two men… his stumpy tail wiggling to and fro.

Sherlock lowered his voice to that deep, dangerous pitch. "HAVE YOU your weapon?"

"Yes!" John unthinkingly reached behind him to the top of his trouser belt and felt the Browning securely hidden.

"How many shots left?"

"8."

"We just have a few more minutes before we leave. I _suggest_ you run through possible actions you may need to take. I shall return, momentarily. Be READY." Sherlock strode from the room purposefully and went over to speak with Lestrade.

Gladstone waddled to sit in front of John, gazing up with what appeared to be a large grin.


	13. Chapter 13

(Dear readers, I can't apologize enough for the extended hiatus. Life just got in the way – t'was ever thus! However, thanks to the companionship and cajoling of BritLitChick, (who as I write this is madly typing away in the next room, as we have spoiled ourselves with a writing adventure together!), I've finally taken the time to finish this story. You might want to back up a couple of chapters to refresh, because this will come jarring in, full force, and out of place of our boys previous location and situation. Please enjoy and take it all in with the sense of fun and frolic intended!)

Warning: unexpected closeness and heat (no milk to cool down with, this time)

**CHAPTER 13**

* * *

Sherlock woke to find John staring at him. Up close. _Very close._

He quickly blinked a few times, as he assessed why his body felt odd. _Fingers numb. Wrists tight. Bound then… And legs? …_ He tried to move them but contacted with, what could only be… John's knees. Sherlock tried to move back to better assess the situation, but that proved difficult in all directions.

"It appears, we're lying on the ground, with wrists and ankles bound… to each other."

"That's about right, yeah." John sighed and shook his head a little, as if he found the predicament just as confusing.

"How long have we been here?"

"Can't tell you that. I just came to a few minutes ago, myself. Don't know where 'here' is either."

"Help me sit up," Sherlock demanded, as he struggled to do so.

"Not sure how we're going to do to that… a bit awkward this..."

"Nonsense, John." Sherlock tried to rise sideways, but his long limbs seemed stuck… one knee underneath John's leg and the other jostling for position."

"Ow!"

"Well, put your leg over this way…"

"Which way…"

"Here let me…"

"Sherlock, I don't bend like that!"

"Oh for God's sake, couldn't they have tied us back to back! So much easier..."

"Well, that would have taken all the fun out of it, now wouldn't it, boys?"

Sherlock whipped his head around to see Moran clapping his hands slowly, in mock praise.

"Where the hell is my dog?!" John's face was very angry indeed.

_Interesting… His first thought is always of another's safety… Good, John. Thought processes intact.  
THINK SHERLOCK! Traces of chloroform still present. Slightly slowed synapses._

"Got off one round and heard a yelp, but the mutt ran, before I could shoot him properly," Moran shrugged with a grin.

John's face was dark.

_Smell of oil. Natural light only, high windows, many broken. Splashes of faded colour on the floor. Disused paint factory._

"What are you playing at, Moran?" Sherlock knew time was short.

"Well, I figured since I was having the worst luck at nailing you from afar, I had better just finish the job up close."

"How thoughtful."

"I figured it deserved recognition… because no one…" Moran's jovial expression turned to a dark scowl, "And I mean NO ONE… has ever dodged my bullets TWICE. So, I decided you needed some special attention… an honour salute, as it were."

"No really…. I don't."

"Oh, but I insist."

Sebastian grabbed a handful of ginger locks and yanked backwards. Sherlock and John had only managed to get propped up on one elbow, so this awkward strain on his neck was intended to hurt.

"You right wanker. Mr. Lord-of-deduction. Not so Lordly now though, ya? You look more like a homeless wretch, in need of a good scrub. Funny how, in the end, you are just as predictable as everyone else… running home to your boyfriend, expecting what… open arms? God, you make me puke."

"Let. Him. Go."

"Or what, Johnny-boy? That's what Jim always used to call you… his 'dear Johnny'… like he was about to write you a letter of regret. He nearly did you know, after this oaf off-ed himself. He wanted to very badly… pop a personal, 'Dear John' letter in the mail, saying thanks for all the good times, but without Sherlock, a two-way just wouldn't be the same."

Not seeming possible, John's already dark stare became murderous.

"But, Jim got distracted by… well, me… I guess." Sebastian smiled an oily smirk. "And, he just never got around to it."

"How tragic." Sherlock grimaced, as Sebastian's grip tightened.

"It soon will be, I promise you."

He pushed Sherlock forward hard… so that he sprawled across John.

"Better kiss and make up. Last chance." Sebastian stood over them for a moment, then snorted in disgust and stalked away, army boots clapping on the dirty concrete floor. A metal door slammed in the distance.

"Fancy a tumble?"

"What?!"

"We need to roll over to that pole, John."

"Oh. Right."

Lying down and straightening out, the two men awkwardly attempted to roll, but John was trying to keep his distance, which wasn't working.

"John, close your eyes and trust me."

After a collision of eyebrows, John did as asked and scrunched up his eyes tightly. Sherlock maneuvered their arms to be stretched out above their heads and he launched them into an alligator-style roll. Three, four, five, six, seven rotations and they banged up against a five inch conduit, which vaulted up to the ceiling. They maneuvered to grasp hands around the pole and managed to haul themselves upright.

"What happened to us?"

"Unexpected. Canister of knockout gas tossed into the flat."

"But, I thought Lestrade was watching from every angle?"

"Apparently not. Something must have happened to part his team. Evidently, enough were overcome that Moran was able to get us out of the flat unseen."

"Embarrassing."

"A bit."

"So, what now?"

They had gotten to their feet, with John trying to angle his toes to support his own weight, but mostly he was standing on Sherlock's shoes.

Sherlock quickly surveyed the abandoned building. _An odd assortment of benches, overturned tables, some semblance of a conveyor. Along one side by the windows, a series of golf-style small carts._ Sherlock thought it would be tempting to get to the one of the carts, which might have enough battery power left to help them get outside, but the opposite thought occurred. Moran hadn't left a sentry watching them, which meant…

"We've got to run, NOW JOHN!"

"HANG ON!"

"COME ON! Work WITH me!"

Their ungainly movement was so awkward, it was laughable to watch. But, Sherlock wasn't laughing… he was mentally counting… 8… 7... 6… 5… as he reached around John's waist and lifted. This only twisted John's arms around behind him, painfully."

"OI!"

"TRUST ME!"

With his chest crushed against Sherlock, John felt like a rag doll… a very annoyed, seething, get-me-the-f-ing-hell-outta-here, rag doll. Sherlock made a herculean effort to lope towards an open door, in the opposite direction from the one Sebastian had used. Just as they broke through into the sunshine, the building exploded.


	14. Chapter 14

Warning: hallucinations and … gee, why would I warn about that?! It's a good thing!

**CHAPTER 14**

* * *

_Warm, lovely day. Hot breezes blowing palm leaves. The ocean waves look so inviting… but it's too hard to get up from the sand. I'd rather just lay here a while longer… it's been so long since I've had a decent rest. _

"Sherlock!"

_The sun is intense, but it feels so good on my skin. I've been so cold lately. I wonder if John would like to go for a swim. "John?" No answer. Ah well, he's probably sleeping. Or maybe he's gone to fetch us more of those frozen, green drinks. Or maybe the ones in the pineapple with the umbrellas on top. I really just want to sleep…_

"Sherlock… please!"

_Mmmmm… warm… hot, yes. Maybe too hot… I shouldn't get a sunburn. Probably time to turn over to more evenly distribute the UV rays. Very, very hot… and I can't roll over. "John!" What's going on? I thought we could go for swim. OUCH!_

John slapped the angular, pale cheekbone with the back of Sherlock's own hand. "SHERLOCK!" We have to MOVE!"

The explosion had blown them forward from the doorway. Sherlock had taken the brunt of the force on his back, while John had been more protected. But now, the heat from the burning building was suffocating.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered and his lips moved, but no sound came out. _He's not regaining consciousness,_ John worried. He decided to try the same maneuver Sherlock had achieved inside. John yanked their arms up over their heads and started to rock back and forth. When he finally got to the tipping point, they made one rotation, but didn't have the momentum to continue.

_Really, John? We'll get all sandy. Well… if you insist…_

This left John on top, straddling Sherlock's torso with his face buried in the base of Sherlock's neck. Gasping for air now, John made another attempt at a roll and succeeded in making 3 full turns until they hit a curb.

_Look. I made a sandcastle, just for you._

John heard a siren. _Oh God. Please come quickly._ He kept his eyes closed because the air was full of swirling smoke. Suddenly, there was something wet on face. Wet, but not cool. And, it was rough. A loud whine broke through his daze. "Gladstone!" A sharp bark in reply. "Good boy." Another whine. _No, we need barking right now, _John realized_. _ "Hey boy! Where's the squirrel? That's right, where's the squirrel? Go on! Go get it!"

Gladstone stopped mid-whine to stare perplexed. He's head darted either side. But, when he didn't see the implied prey, this set off a frenzy of frustrated barks.

"What the hell is that?" One of the officers, who had jumped out of the cruiser to gape at the flames pouring from the large, collapsing structure, turned and pointed along the side of the ruined building in the direction of, what appeared to be, a wildly bouncing, barking bulldog.


	15. Chapter 15

Warning: The title says it all – wouldn't be a closing chapter without it!

**CHAPTER 15**

* * *

"I didn't know you liked dogs, Angelo." John watched as the restaurateur scratched Gladstone's head.

"Of course I do! I've always had dogs… ever since my mum got me one as a kid." Angelo smiled warmly back at the grinning animal.

"Are you sure the others won't mind?"

"Just keep him under the table and it'll be fine. I'm so glad to see you, Sherlock." Angelo shook his hand warmly. "We missed you."

"Thank you."

"Now, let me get a candle…"

Sherlock avoided John's look, but noted the shake of John's head. The two men settled, but John immediately had to shift his feet, as Gladstone decided that particular location was where he should lie down. It seemed something delectable was waiting to be enjoyed on that particular side of the table leg, which required the right positioning for easy tongue access to lick.

"Deliverance…" and "Redemption…" They both spoke at the same time.

"You go first, John."

"No, Sherlock. I really think I need you to go first."

"You know we're not going to answer everything tonight."

"I know. But, I'm willing to be patient. What did you mean, 'Redemption?"

"I was thinking of a Tennessee Williams quote… 'Hell is yourself and the only redemption is when a person puts himself aside to feel deeply for another.' I detested the Hell I had created. And, I just wanted our friendship back… to be… as it was, John. This is what kept me alive."

_Silence. How long is too long to hold someone's gaze? _Sherlock shifted slightly to stare out the window instead."And, Deliverance, John?"

John contemplated Sherlock's words a moment more before replying. "Well… I feel like _I've_ been to Hell and back. I needed deliverance from that Hell. And while you created it, you also saved me, it seems."

"That's all I ever wanted. I really…"

"However…"

"However?" Sherlock turned to ponder the seriousness of his companion's demeanor. _Deep breaths. Furrowed brow. Soldier's stare. Can we please just move on with our lives… together?_

"The 'deliverance' I was meaning was about our situation. We still aren't in the clear. I'm not even sure eating out is a good idea."

_Ah… concern for safety. Not concern of our friendship. Good. _

"Moran will take a while to regroup. He never was as thorough, as Moriarty. It's his style to strike and then back off for a bit. I plan to use the time to our advantage, I assure you."

"But, why are we here exactly?"

"Your stomach has been growling for the last 2 hours and I too require a decent meal… in good company."

John was already buttering a hunk of fresh basil bread which he'd extracted from the basket on the table. He took a solid bite, tearing through the crust and closed his eyes to help focus his enjoyment of the flavour. Sherlock watched, vicariously sharing John's pleasure.

A man in a dark grey suit came through the door of the restaurant and walked up to the bar. Sherlock's gaze moved from John to observe the man hand over a small wooden box. The man spoke very briefly to Angelo, who took the package from behind the bar. Then the deliverer turned and swiftly strode out the door.

Ever wary, Sherlock's guard was up when Angelo looked over at him from the bar, came around the end and moved directly toward their table, cradling the box.

"Special delivery for you, Sherlock."

"Please set it on the table gently, Angelo."

There was an envelope sitting on top. Sherlock gingerly lifted it up and sniffed it. He tore open the envelope and yanked out the card.

'_Welcome home, brother.'_

"What is it, Sherlock?" John's worried expression was intense.

"Stand down, John. It's all right." Sherlock slid open the top panel of the box, revealing a 1945 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild Jeroboam. "It's from Mycroft."

"For us to drink?"

"Apparently."

"Good, God, Sherlock! Do you know what that is?" Angelo stared at the bottle, eyes wide.

"Obviously." Sherlock handed the bottle over. "Angelo, would you do the honours?"

Angelo took the bottle, as if he was accepting a baby.

John looked confused. His eyes switched back and forth between Sherlock and the man admiring the newborn in his hands.

"What am I missing?" John asked, as he watched Angelo cradle the bottle lovingly for another moment before setting it down on the table and procuring a corkscrew from his apron.

"This, John, is one of the most expensive wines there is. But, not just expensive. The bouquet supposed to be unsurpassed." Sherlock observed Angelo expertly extracted the cork and hold it out for John to sniff.

"Get a third glass for yourself, Angelo," Sherlock remarked.

"I couldn't, Sherlock."

"I insist."

Wine sampled, poured, breathed, tasted, and fawned over, Angelo eventually took his leave. Sherlock and John sat in silence for a few minutes, continuing to appreciate the rare bouquet of the exquisite gift.

"I'm still pretty angry with you, Sherlock. You don't get off this easily. You can start talking any time. And, seeing as we're polishing off this 'God-knows-how-much-it's-worth' bottle, I think you'd better _buy_ dinner from Angelo tonight." John's mouth had a stern line, but his eyes were crinkled in the corners.

"I didn't bring my wallet."

"Start. Talking."

Throughout the excellent meal – the best Sherlock had eaten in over 2 years, actually – Sherlock spoke and John listened. Questions were asked. Eyebrows were raised. Heads were bowed in guilt, and in empathy, but never in shame. Two, once steadfast friends, began to rekindle their bond.

After a stretch of silence, in which John drained the rest of the marvelous wine into their glasses and they simultaneously picked them up, nodded to each other and drank, the text alert noise chimed on John's phone.

_Eyes wide. Sharp intake of breath. Sudden remembrance. Eyebrows dropped to a concerned stance. Mouth pulled into a thin line. Mary._

Sherlock was at a loss as to what to say. Trying to console someone was not is forte… he had no advice to give. Not that John needed any, truly. But he looked at Sherlock, as if asking for help, then seemed to think better of it.

"I need to make a call, Sherlock. Excuse me for a moment." John rose. Gladstone stood and padded after John, who held the door open and they both stepped outside to the street.

Sherlock subtly craned his neck a bit to observe John pacing, as he spoke to Mary on the cell phone. _Gentle, soothing words. Shoulders drooped. Apologizing again. Standing still now. Promising future connection. _

When John returned, with the bulldog in tow, Sherlock was contemplating his spoon. _He looks a bit like Alan Rickman from Robin Hood_, John thought. How close to the truth he was, he would never know.

As tea was served and the crowd thinned from the restaurant, tea appeared on the table, along with two beautiful, tall pieces of pavlova.

"Oh, Angelo. You are spoiling us rotten!" Despite having tucked away a substantial meal, John didn't hesitate to pick up his fork immediately and plunge it into the delectable meringue.

"It's Sherlock's favourite and tonight is a celebration, after all!" Angelo stepped back, fished into his pocket and brought out something in his hand, which he lowered to below the table. Gladstone had been lounging with one eye open and at the possibility of a snack being offered, he launched his stout body upward and immediately lunged forward to grab whatever was on the menu. Of course, his clumsy movement jostled the table leg, setting the dishes rattling above, including the small pitcher, which tumbled over, spilling milk along the table to dribble over the edge and onto the floor. Gladstone was in his glory. A treat AND milk…

"I'm so sorry, Angelo! John snatched his napkin to stop the flow. "I _swear_ he does it on purpose."

"Don't worry, boys. Me Mum always told me… there just no point crying over spilt milk."


End file.
